


this pain ain't permanent

by idekman



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Humour, I'll put any extensive trigger warnings in the end notes, Multi, Nightmares, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, TW: Explosions, TW: Swearing, angst bucky barnes, angst stevebucky, cute stevebucky, i honestly don't know what to tag this with at this point, im sorry, trigger warnings to be added as we go along, tw: bombs, tw: death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'James may be seeing a romantic context to Bucky's memories of the time you two spent together and assuming this is the norm for your relationship. Is it?'</p><p>'Is it what?' Steve asks, mind racing a mile a minute.</p><p>'The norm?'</p><p>'Is what the norm?'</p><p>'A romantic context?'</p><p>'... What?'</p><p>'What May's trying to ask you, Steve,' Coulson sighs, 'is if you and Bucky had a romantic relationship?'</p><p>Steve stares at the two figures before him. They look as if they've just asked him for the time. Sometimes, he really hates super spies. </p><p>-</p><p>Steve and Bucky are on the run. Chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one (all that i have is a river, the river is always my home)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. Not sure about this one. I really hope you like it - it's the first multi-chaptered fic that I've actually planned and made a plot for. I'll upload when I can, I have the first few chapters written out ish. Tell me if you want to me carry on.  
> Thanks as usual for the unending patience of Luke, who beta'd this first chapter, and everyone else on twitter.  
> Extensive trigger warnings in the end notes but: possible (but very mild) dubious consent for this chapter as well as some violence. Please refer to the end notes if this may be an issue for you.  
> you can find me at whambamsebastianstan.tumblr.com or @peedonthefloor on twitter. please come say hi! i also track the tag idekman ao3 on tumblr :)

One moment he's fast asleep, the next there's a presence looming over him and he's got a knife tight in the palm of his hand, sat bolt upright.

'It's me.'

The voice is low. Familiar. He heaves a shaky sigh.

'Jeez, Buck, you scared me.' 

Bucky's throat bobs under his knife and he drops it instantly, metal meeting concrete with a noisy clatter. His vision adjusts to the dim light quickly - too fast, it's been so long now but there are aspects of his body he thinks he might never get used to - and he studies Bucky for a second, bundled up in as many layers they could get their hands on. His sleeping bag lies neat and unused not far from Steve, and he frowns across at it. An excuse not to look at Bucky.

'Where you been?' Steve asks, voice still rough and edged with sleep. 'You know you shouldn't -'

'You used to be small.'

Steve tries not to let his head hang, tries not to let his disappointment show in his shift of the eyes as he wonders what's muddled Bucky this time. A trigger'll just as likely confuse Bucky as it will clarify anything, and he knows London, the cold, the lack of stability - none of it's helping.

'Yeah, Buck. I was tiny. You remember?'

Bucky nods - but it's slow, sluggish and his gaze drifts out of focus, taking very little in.

'He liked it.'

That pulls him up short.

Steve blinks, squints over at Bucky - who's still too close, on edge, knees brushing up against Steve's elbow as he perches by his side - wondering if he's heard that right.

'Bucky, are you -'

But then Bucky's leaning over, lifting Steve's sweater and tracing cautious fingers over the flat planes of his stomach. His hand rests, briefly, on the jut of Steve's hipbone above the waistband of his jeans, touch so cold Steve can't help but suck in a breath and hold it, chest tight and face flushed.

Retracting his hand, unsettled now, Bucky unzips the enormous parka he's wearing, shoves a hand under his own shirt - far less careful than he was with Steve, who can only watch with a bemused fascination - and traces the sharp press of bone there. A few months ago the Winter Soldier cut an intimidating figure - lean but stocky, no wasted body mass. Utterly efficient. Now he's just - _small_. He barely eats and when he does it's quick and wolfish, almost guilty, no matter how many times Steve puts food in front of him.

'Bucky. He liked it.'

The repetition is slow, considered, and Steve watches as his metal hand deftly zips up the coat again.

The bulk of the thing at least lets Steve ignore the way Bucky's wasting away in front of him.

A messy-haired head tilts to one side, eyes tracking up as the Winter Soldier (and it's definitely the Soldier at this point, so far removed from Bucky in his disorientation he's almost unrecognisable) searching for words.

'He thought it was -' the sentence cracks in two. It's not rare, this breaking off halfway through a conversation; he takes his time with his words in a way that Bucky, always fluid, always fluent, never did. The way the Winter Soldier is currently _blushing_ is definitely more unusual, however.

'- nice,' he eventually finishes, deliberately bland. 'He thought it was nice.'

Not half as unusual these days, Steve's lost for words.

Bucky's face is thick with grime - just as his own is - hair a tangled, greasy mess barely pulled up into a bun. He won't let anyone cut it, refuses to do it himself, even when Steve lead by example and cropped his hair short, an awkward, ugly cut. It makes him utterly unrecognisable when combined with the beard - which is sort of the point - but he thinks it throws Bucky at times, to look at Steve and barely be able to match this face up to the memories. Bucky just looks - younger. Gentler, but harsh like the Winter Soldier, all at once. He just looks _different_.

Bucky - or the Winter Soldier. Or James, as he prefers, but he'll tolerate Bucky from Steve - is still staring at him expectantly, trembling slightly as the bitter wind slips under the bridge to rush through them. There's something cold and pervasive about a London winter; it's nothing compared to the snow of Brooklyn in December ( _or being frozen in ice for seventy years_ , Steve's brain supplies helpfully) but it's been raining for three days straight and they've been sleeping rough for five, ever since their safe house in Edinburgh rapidly became hilariously un-safe.

'You cold?' Steve asks eventually. Stupidly. His own body temperature naturally runs hot but Bucky always feels the cold, is always shivering no matter how many layers Steve piles on top of him. He's chewing at his bottom lip now, which is tinged with blue, and when Steve looks closer it's clear Bucky's left the relative shelter of the bridge whilst Steve slept; he's soaked through, raindrops dancing off long eyelashes.

'C'mere,' Steve sighs, scrabbling in his pack - he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, tries not to remember the thud of boots at the back stairs, the familiar bristle and click of gun power as he'd bundled whatever he could get his hands on into a too-small rucksack and hustled Bucky out the window. It'd never been that close before and he can't shake the feeling that Hydra are catching up now, stepping on their heels. Shaking his head, trying to clear the thoughts away for now, he grabs a towel.

Touch with Bucky is always hit and miss - there have been times where Steve's had a knife at his throat for his troubles - but now he's oddly receptive, ducking his head as Steve takes the worst of the wet out of his hair with the towel. Bucky's huddled close, curved in on himself, drawn towards Steve like a magnet, still shivering - and Steve has no idea if super-assassins can catch the flu, but he'd really rather not to have to deal with a sick, grumpy Winter Soldier because he let Bucky go to sleep with wet hair.

'Better?'

Bucky says nothing, shrugs, looks a little sadly at his sleeping bag, as if it's done something to personally offend him. Steve tries not to sigh.

'You gotta sleep, Buck -'

He's cut off by Bucky dragging his sleeping bag across the ground, crawling into it with obvious mounting levels of irritation, and tucking himself as close to Steve as he can get. For a moment - yet again - Steve's speechless, as Bucky's sleeping bag-clad thighs brush against his, eyes resolutely clamped shut.

His hands are still shaking - he'd lost his gloves in the rush leaving Edinburgh, and they haven't had the money for more. In fact, they officially ran out of money two days ago, a fact Steve desperately tries not to think about every time he steals them breakfast - and Steve, slowly, broadcasting his movements with the noisy rustle of his sleeping bag, curves both his arm hands around Bucky's human one.

He feels Bucky tense next to him, eyes flickering open, grey and hard - but when he takes in Steve, face open and careful, he melts. Shifts in a little closer.

Just as he's drifting back to sleep, Bucky's breath cool and jagged against his neck, he feels the man loop an arm around his waist. It means that when Bucky wakes up out of an inevitable nightmare - as he always does - Steve'll at best get an accidental kick to his gut and at worst a metal arm around his throat.

But if he shuts his eyes, ignores the rattle of the ever-present London traffic and the filtered mist of rain driving over them, he can imagine he's still some tiny kid with his friend wrapped around him in a Brooklyn winter, keeping each other warm.

 

A few months ago, it was a whole different story.

If the Winter Soldier _had_ left him to drown in the Potomac, he - well he'd probably be dead. But if, somehow, someone had managed to dredge him up - he'd survived a seventy year dip in the Arctic, after all - a part of him thinks he might have left the Winter Soldier well alone.

But Bucky _had_ pulled him out of the river, bloody and beaten and half drowned the both of them. There had been something buried deep enough in the Winter Soldier that was still _Bucky_ , and it had given Steve a few scraps of hope.

Turns out those scraps had been a total pain in the ass. Even with Nat's help and that file - the file that, even now, Steve keeps with him and, even now, gives him nightmares - he'd had no clue where to start.

And so had begun a several months-long journey of he and Sam tracking over half of Eastern Europe trying to find Bucky Barnes and take down as many Hydra bases as they could find along the way.

Sam had given up when they'd found Bucky's safe house in Prague a hollowed out shell.

It had been a muggy, thickly hot day and central Prague had been a nightmare. His comms had been crackling irritably in his ear, he was trying to ignore the way his stomach was rumbling at him (they were constantly hungry these days, constantly short on money and always, _always_ tired) as he followed the route Nat had e-mailed over to him. Back in the days where it was still safe enough to have a smart phone.

Sam had been considerably relaxed that day, enjoying the sunshine and the thick knot of people surrounding him in the Old Town Square. Sam was, as always, at his best around people and at that point he'd been surrounded by hundreds of them, remotely scanning the streets around the Centre Apartments with Nat. Steve half-listened to the two of them bickering over the comms, occasionally cutting off to bursts of static, the hum of packed streets and traffic undercutting them. It was almost a nice day.

He had allowed himself a modicum of hope, a balloon growing and pressing in his chest. The doorman he'd managed to get on the phone had been less than willing to lose his job in order to help him out, but after Steve had charmed him with some strung-out story of long-lost brothers (and Jesus, doesn't _that_ sting), he'd relented somewhat. The man wouldn't give out any names - irrelevant, seeing as there was no way in hell that Bucky, on the run from a half-dozen different criminal factions and government organisations, would be using his real name or anything remotely close - but yes. A man matching Steve's description, long hair, baseball cap pulled low, long sleeves and gloves despite the heat, had checked in three days ago. Paid in cash, hadn't left his room since.

Steve hadn't been sure how he'd get up to Bucky's room. He'd camp out in the lobby if he had to. It had all felt so _close_ , and he was starting to forget what Bucky looked like beyond the scrappy photos in the file, and -

The hope, that had started to press up into his throat, had dissipated as soon as the bomb had gone off.

He was close enough that the explosion carted him into the air, the noise ringing in his ears, leaving the world a spinning mess as he felt the ground meet his knees. Then his shoulder. The comms were muffled, painful crackles in his ear so he tore them out, let the cobbles soothe the split of pain in his head.

He thinks he would have stayed there, let himself be carted off by the emergency services and then, inevitably, the police - a small, hysterical part of him had reflected on how hilarious it was that Captain America was a wanted criminal throughout most of Europe and the fucking U.S.A. - if Sam hadn't appeared, a hazy figure even as strong hands had clapped over his shoulders and hauled him up.

Sounds had returned to him slowly enough; the distant whine of sirens. Screaming, coughing. Crying. Sam repeating his name, trying to get him to focus. The air was dry around them, thick with dust and smoke, and Steve had to force himself to concentrate past the ringing in his ears and listen to Sam.

'Hydra?' Steve had croaked out. He shifted back, trying to get his footing, feels something give and splinter under the heel of his shoe.

He had spun, wildly.

It had been a hand.

A _hand_ , his brain had supplied, unable to quite process the meaning of that, lying crushed under his shoe. A few meters away the body the hand belonged to lay, eyes wide open. Still.

'No, Steve,' Sam had explained quietly. 'I think this one might have been Bucky.'

Steve stared up at the building in front of them. It was a shell now, the smooth, pale brick black with smoke, the entire front hollowed out. There was a window pane lying scattered halfway across the street, a pair of spectacles snapped clean in two a little further on.

Sam's hand had been strong and warm on his shoulder as he'd wheeled round and vomited - but when he'd glanced up, swiped a hand across his mouth, Steve could practically _feel_ the disappointment coming off Sam in waves. He'd become a shadow in comparison to the man Steve had met in D.C. a few months ago - they all had - exhausted and too thin, hair unruly and skin now covered in a fine layer of dust. But Sam was always, impossibly smiling, cracking a joke, flirting with Nat and Steve and just about anybody else he came across -

That stopped in Prague.

Maybe, at that, a small part of Steve had given up too.

 

Steve wakes up gasping, dust in his throat and ringing in his ears.

He slows his breathing eventually, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to swear under his breath. If he wakes Bucky up now, like this, it'll be to screaming and potentially murderous inclinations. For now, Bucky's still wrapped round him, metal fingers tangled up in the collar of Steve's jumper.

For a moment, he shifts back, tries to drink Bucky in.

At first, the Winter Soldier hadn't slept. For four days straight, Steve had fallen asleep with Bucky glaring across at him, and had woken up to the exact same sight. When he finally did sleep, it had been for an hour every now and then, so still Steve had wondered if he was even breathing. When he managed more than a couple of hours it always meant waking to screams, disorientation. Fear. Even if Bucky never said it, Steve could read it in the whites of his eyes, the ragged breathing.

Now, he looks abnormally peaceful. There's still grime on his face, his hair is still stringy and thin with grease, but if Steve allows his mind to play tricks it's almost 1942 and they're huddled up in their piece of shit, too-cold apartment, Steve not wanting to sleep because he's terrified he won't wake up again.

One of his hands is still holding Bucky's. That's familiar too.

It's not until his phone buzzes against his thigh that he realises what had woken him in the first place. The sky's an odd, dusky blue, dawn light just beginning to filter through to the space under a bridge they're sleeping in. The police will be here soon, ready to move them on. Shuffling back gently - knowing he should wake Bucky up but not wanting to disturb this rare moment of peace - he pulls the phone out of his pocket. It's a brick of a thing with no internet capability - text and phone calls only. And snake, which had at one point kept Bucky silent and occupied for twelve hours straight - the burner phone from Edinburgh.

It's an unknown number but the _C_ at the end identifies it as being from Coulson. It's in code, but when Steve hurriedly works it out on a scrap of paper with a leaky biro, it reads as an address - the other side of London, judging by the postcode. He feels something in him sag with relief. He's been waiting for this text ever since they were chased out of Edinburgh; the address means a bed. A shower. Maybe even central heating, if they're lucky. He's sick of being cold, sick of Bucky being freezing, and as great a disguise being homeless is, he's sick of that too.

Tucking the phone back into his pocket, he picks a safe spot on Bucky. Ribs and neck - too vulnerable. Bound to get a terrible reaction. Metal arm - flipping between hyper-sensitive and totally numb, currently susceptible to malfunctions ever since it got damn-near destroyed in Edinburgh. Definitely a no-go.

Gingerly tracing his fingers through the man's hair, he whispers out _Bucky_.

He wakes immediately, hurtling into the defensive, eyes wild and his entire body tensed like a bow string. Steve watches Bucky watch him for a moment, before finally letting loose a breath, entire body relaxing at once. They're an inch or so apart, Bucky's eyes large and dark.

There have been worse mornings.

And - well. This is entirely too intimate, all at once overwhelming as Steve scrabbles up, rolling his sleeping bag up and glancing across at Bucky. He looks bewildered now, staring up at Steve with something wounded in his stare.

'What? Do we have to go?'

Bucky's voice is hoarse, rough with sleep, and - and that's new too. Questions. The Winter Soldier just follows, usually wordlessly. Now he looks practically put out.

'Yeah. Coulson's got a place for us.'

They've been returning to this spot the past few nights now. They were in Edinburgh far longer, some huge sprawling house that Bucky clearly hated, even if he never said a word about it. Too many corners, too many wide open spaces with nowhere for cover. He'd barely spoken the entire time they were there, constantly tensed up, shoulders practically up around his chin as he'd hid behind his hair. Here he's been - almost _chipper_. He'll go out at night, god knows where, but Steve will always wake to find Bucky curled up in his sleeping bag, always a few inches closer than he'd been the night before.

'Hey, are you gonna help me -'

Steve cuts himself off, staring across at where Bucky's still sat. He's shivering, teeth chattering in the cold - it's bitter today, pervasive, the rain gone but a freezing wind sneaking under their clothes instead - hand splayed across the shiny material of his sleeping bag. Concentrating on the spot where Steve slept, skin taking in the leftover warmth there.

 _Christ_.

'Hey. You wanna - you wanna share a room when we get there?' Steve asks casually, ignoring the way the tips of his ears burn hot under his beanie. 'Makes sense, you know - with the nightmares. So you don't hurt yourself.'

He doesn't mention how Bucky seems to sleep better when he's close.

Instead, Steve chances a glance over his shoulder down at Bucky. He's staring warily at Steve, face set to a careful neutral that mean's he's either totally confused or pissed off. Eventually, however, he mumbles out _sure_ and lets Steve haul him up. Tugging a hair tie off his wrist, he begins piling it up into a bun, only to scowl when Steve pushes a baseball cap down over the entire mess. Making sure the peak's pulled down low enough, Steve zips up Bucky's parka and, after a moment's consideration, tugs off his own scarf and wraps it around Bucky's neck, pulling it up over his mouth and nose with careful fingers.

It's a test more than anything; the Winter Soldier's punched him in the head for less. Now he simply stands placid, glaring up at Steve as he plucks up Bucky's flesh hand and absently rubs some heat into it, explaining;

'We're taking the tube.'

Bucky nods in understanding - trying, Steve can see, not to let his eagerness show - and, for once, sets off to lead the way, snatching the rucksack out of Steve's hands as he goes and slinging it onto his own back. It's not often they expose themselves to the public - and the constant barrage of security cameras that comes with it - but it's either that or face a potentially day-long trek across half of London, which neither of them have the energy for.

Besides. Bucky _loves_ the tube. It's _strange_.

As soon as they arrive at one of the many stations dotted across London, Bucky's bounding off, darting around the thick crowds, so light on his feet it's like he's trying to chase a shadow. Where Bucky slips smoothly around people, Steve has to barge through them, throwing apologies over his shoulder as he goes. He manages to catch up just in time to find Bucky leaping childishly over one of the turnstiles, twisting to grin breathlessly at Steve as a few of the train line staff begin making a beeline for them.

'It's alright, it's alright,' Steve calls out in an attempt to pacify them - because there's some big bloke just behind Bucky reaching out, and Steve can only see how well that'll end. Tapping the pre-loaded Oyster card Coulson had provided for them and, once he's slipped through, leaning over to tap it again, he sends a tight-lipped smile to the men currently backing off, and resists the urge to drag Bucky by the wrist. Instead, he laces his fingers through Bucky's, rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath,

'What happened to keeping a low profile?'

The Winter Soldier simply winks back, and it's such a - it's so purely _Bucky_ that his breath tangles in his throat and he stumbles, a hand at his elbow before he can fall. They've paused in the busy corridor, Bucky looking at him questioningly, scarf pulled down off his face now - he's breathless, still smiling a little, looks ten years younger than usual. Steve raises a hand, tucks a few loose tendrils of hair behind Bucky's ear, watches Bucky watch him. Again.

Bucky stares at him for a moment, opens his mouth as if to speak - but then a commuter in a rush crashes into Steve, sending Bucky spinning away down the corridor, leaves Steve stumbling (again) as Bucky comes to a deliberate stop in front of the tube map. Steve appears at his elbow, stares at the address Coulson sent to him, trying to make sense of it relative to the mess of lines on the map in front of him until Bucky snatches it up, scowling down at the tiny screen.

'You two alright?'

It's another member of staff, clearly keen to move the two of them along. Steve almost misses the days where either his tiny stature or his title lead people to assume he would be keeping out of trouble; now the two of them look like hobos and people are spitting on them when they walk down the street as often as they're looking away.

The man's gaze latches onto Steve's face almost instantaneously, eyes narrowing a little. It's not a surprise - if it wasn't enough that his face is plastered all over t-shirts, now it's on the news as well. Bucky's too.

'Hey, do I know -'

'Sorry, sorry,' Bucky breaks in noisily, layering on a thick Russian accent as he winds an arm around Steve's waist, grinning lazily at the guard. 'My boyfriend, he's American - all such tourists, no?' Bucky laughs, the sound utterly unfamiliar as he leans up onto tip-toe and presses a kiss to Steve's cheek.

 _Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable_ , he tells himself even as his face flushes and he grins wonkily down at Bucky.

Two metal fingers press into his ribs hard enough to leave a bruise. It's a reminder. Steve tries not to wince.

'Alright. You kids have a nice day,' the guard calls after them as Bucky pulls Steve away, clinging to his side right up until they're round the corner and out of sight.

'What was that about?' Steve mutters (tries not to snap) as Bucky puts a good meter or so of space between them. Glaring across at him, Bucky pointedly shakes free the strands of hair Steve had carefully tucked away, and jerks his head in guidance as Steve moves to turn down the wrong corridor.

 

Bucky's staring at a baby. The baby's staring right back. Steve's staring at both of them.

Actually, Bucky's _scowling_ at the baby, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat as the baby's bounced on the knee of a distracted mother, chattering away on her phone.

Steve's fairly sure Bucky's got himself locked into a staring contest with a baby - until, cautiously, he pulls his left hand out of his pocket, checking no one's watching before he waggles a few metal fingers. The quiet hum of it is reassuring in its familiarity now - even if a few rusty clicks give an indication of just how broken Bucky's arm is at the moment - and the metal shines in the light, the glint catching the baby's eye. It lets out a surprised, pleased gurgle, waving pudgy arms excitedly - and Bucky's grinning, gentle and shockingly beautiful all at once.

The distracted mother glances over and Bucky rapidly shoves his hand back in his pocket, staring down at his knees as the woman glares across at the pair of them and sweeps the child up against her chest. Bucky looks like he's just been punched.

Steve sighs. He _hates_ the tube.


	2. 2: come take my pulse (the pace is on a runway train)

Out of everyone, Coulson's team have been reassuringly constant.

Last time Steve saw Nat, she'd had bleached blonde hair, dressed in baggy sweats, slipping him a burner phone and credit card in Warsaw. It was a dangerous move but he'd watched her go anyway; she'd walked head ducked, shoulders hunched, taking up as little space as possible. He knew it was all an act, that the next time he sees her she'll probably be all smirks and raised eyebrows as usual - but at that moment it was the most un-Nat-like thing he'd ever witnessed. It was as if Hydra had stripped away the Black Widow and left Nat, alone and on the run, behind.

(Sounds pretty familiar, actually.)

Yet when Steve buzzes on the intercom of a flashy apartment building and Melinda May appears on the screen, he can't help that the tight feeling in his chest relents a little. Bucky's stood at his shoulder, none-too relaxed after the tube, glaring at the grainy intercom display. He's been patchy recently, and after last night's confusion, Steve wonders if he even recognises the face of the woman he's only met a handful of times before.

'Gentlemen,' Melinda intones. 'Floor thirty-three. Come on up.'

Coming from Melinda, it's a glowing reception.

The gates screech open and Bucky's fingers knot into the material of his jacket, knuckles brushing up against his shoulder blades. He tries not to shiver.

'Mr Barnes.'

Melinda's voice brings Bucky to a halt just as he's about to slip through the gates after Steve. He pauses, visibly twitched, still hanging onto Steve as Melinda quirks an eyebrow at him.

'You remember our house rule?'

Bucky's caught between confusion and frustration for a second - but it's almost visible, the way the memory clicks in his mind. Head bowing, he lets go of Steve's jacket, manages a laugh.

'Leave your weapons at the door.'

'Weapons at the door,' Melinda confirms with a rare gentleness as Bucky sends her a lazy salute. The intercom cuts off, the haze of static disappearing and leaving them in an odd, distended silence. A bird screeches way above them and Bucky stops, lets his gaze track the black blur. For once it's not raining, although the sky's grey as ever, a stark background to the huge apartment building in front of them. Pots full of dead flowers line two enormous double doors and the marble pathway sweeping to the front door is surrounded by pale dirt. The whole place has an ugly, abandoned look to it that's reflected on the inside too. Dead leaves line the lobby inside and an enormous mirror, spotted with rust, is hung up against the wall. When they step into the elevator it groans and stutters its way up thirty-three floors, Bucky huddled into the corner and scowling down at his feet every time Steve sways closer. Steve's not entirely sure _why_ , considering Bucky had his hand wrapped up in Steve's clothes not five minutes ago; now he flinches when their elbows brush on leaving the elevator. It's like dealing with a particularly tactile see-saw.

Steve knocks - three times, then again softer. Then feels slightly mortified that aspects of his life necessitate a _secret knock_ now - on the only door they come across on the thirty-third floor. There's a flickering sound; a few thuds; a mechanical grind; a familiar voice swearing - and then the door swings open to reveal Skye. She looks like she's not sure who she wants to hug first. Whilst the rest of the team might be wary around Bucky, Skye - as usual - has no such fears.

' _Cap!'_ She eventually settles, throwing her arms around his neck in a move that leaves tightness running all along his spine - until he remembers that this is Skye. _Skye_ , Skye who's always warm and always somehow smells of lemons, who still remembers to pluck her eyebrows even as she single-handedly fights a war from her laptop screen. And Steve's about eighty percent sure she's not Hydra. Which, these days, is pretty good going. So he wraps his arms around her waist, tries not to sneeze as her hair tickles hisnose, lets her see his smile when she pulls away.

'Sorry about the door. Fitz did something complicated to the lock,' Skye sighs. Steve studies the contraption now attached to the lock with the usual awed horror and tries not to look too interested when Skye turns to Bucky and sticks her hand out. 'James. Good to see you.'

'Ma'am,' he shoots back with a stiff nod, gingerly shaking her hand after a moment's pause.

'Ooh, we're formal today, aren't we boys? Right. You know the rules; weapons at the door, no shirt, no shoes, no service.'

'She's joking,' Steve answers Bucky's quizzical stare once Skye's rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Emptying out his pockets, Steve drops a knife, his lighter, a pen knife and the gun from the waistband of his jeans into a bin with his name scrawled on it in sharpie.

Five minutes later and Bucky's still unloading weapons. His own bucket is filled to the brim and he's started on Steve's bin too, the continual clatter of weaponry a little terrifying. _  
_

'Done,' he finally mumbles, just as Simmons' head peeks round the corner.

'Hello, gentlemen. Um. Everyone told me to remind you that, uh, well, not that we think you _would_ or anything, but after last time we have a new policy -'

'We do pat-downs and anyone who's found with concealed weapons has to do the washing up.'

The interruption is offered by Fitz, who hovers next to Simmons and glares across at Bucky, rubbing his hand protectively, even as Simmons rolls her eyes. It's only Bucky baring his teeth and straight-up _growling_ at Fitz that sends the two scientists running.

( _Last time_ was, of course, the incident where Bucky stabbed Fitz in the hand with a sharpened fork he'd pulled out of his boot because Fitz wouldn't stop talking about monkeys over dinner.

It had been an eventful dinner. Or, as Tripp had called it, _a total shitstorm._ )

'Buck,' Steve sighs, voice a low warning; sending him a petulant stare, Bucky pulls a garrote wire out of the sleeve of his coat and, flicking around his mouth a little with his tongue, spits something into the palm of his hand before lazily dropping it into the bin.

It's small and it's white and Steve's stomach is lurching. He thinks about the man who'd foamed at the mouth and wasted his dying breath on a _hail hydra_. He looks at Bucky. Looks at the cyanide pill in the bin, looks at the floor and tries not to be sick and -

'Ready for your physical?'

Skye's oblivious, dragging Steve along by his hand, leaving Bucky to traipse along behind. He doesn't look at all perturbed, sending his collection of weaponry a mournful look as they go and saying nothing.

The room they enter is a hive of activity; half a dozen screens are set up in the corner, one on a rolling news channel, the others showing various security feeds. Simmons is on the phone, half talking to someone whilst taking notes, half trying to get Fitz - who's noisily drilling away at something piled up on his haphazard work desk - to shut up. Skye's laptop seems to be hacked into several official government websites - apparently, she's currently trying to decipher whether David Cameron is Hydra. Judging by the newspaper headlines Steve's seen in the UK, he wouldn't be surprised - whilst Tripp's camped out on the floor, surrounded by weapons that he's taking apart to clean. A relative oasis of calm, Coulson and May are settled in the centre of the room, Phil turning to face them as they enter, towed by a still-chattering Skye.

'Cap,' Coulson manages. 'Barnes. You two look...'

'Shit. He's trying to say you look shit.'

'Fitz, I am on the _phone_. Will you please _shut_. _Up_.'

'Why don't you talk to them in the other room?'

'Landline, Fitz. I am using a landline that is unfortunately not _mobile_ , in contrast to my _mobile phone_ , which you took to pieces and subsequently _broke_ -'

'Should probably get back to that phone call, if it's _so_ important.'

'I - they hung up! _Fitz!'_

At Steve's concerned look, Coulson shrugs.

'It's okay,' he pacifies. 'It's a secure line.'

'Right. Um. Not what I was concerned about -'

The _I'm actually deeply concerned about the mental health of your agents_ goes to unsaid, seeing as he's cut off with a pat-down. He blinks, looks down to see Tripp crouching down at his feet, hands running over his ankles.

'Captain,' he beams, digging his fingers into his socks. Bucky hovers at the sidelines, watching the proceedings warily even as Simmons flits past him and nearly takes him out with an armful of folders. Bucky's hand shoots out, snatching up a file that would have slipped out from under Simmons' elbow, and tentatively places it on top of the pile in her arms, patting it ineffectually. Simmons sends him a grin, her attention already halfway across the room.

'Thank you, Mr Barnes,' she chirrups over her shoulder, almost out the door by the time Bucky nods back at her, painfully awkward.

'Shoes and jacket off please, Steve,' Tripp asks politely, starting up again moments later with his hand buried wrist-deep in Steve's shoe; 'it's good to see you again. Alright Captain, you're good to go. Mr Barnes, shoes and jacket off, if you wouldn't mind?'

Shrugging out of his coat, Bucky stands placidly as Tripp runs his hands along his arms, his waist, legs - it's a familiar enough procedure for him.

'And now just your shoes?' Tripp asks, patient as ever even as Bucky pauses, glances to Steve warily.

'I don't want to,' he tells Steve, ignoring the rest of the room. His voice is so, so quiet.

Somewhere in the background Fitz - on washing up duty that evening - stops drilling and pumps a fist in the air.

'Bucky,' Steve warns as he waits for Bucky to kick out of his shoes. When Tripp pulls a tiny, deadly-looking blade out of a slit in the tongue of his shoe he folds his arms over his chest, curving in on himself. He's not looking at anyone even as Fitz stares pointedly at the sink stacked full of dirty plates.

'Fine.' Tripp traipses off to throw the blade on top of Bucky's already towering collection of weaponry. Jamming his hands in his pockets, studiously not meeting Steve's gaze, Bucky continues quietly, 'but I ain't doin' the drying.'

Tripp, returning now, teasingly interrupts Skye's offer to help;

'Hey! No - house rules, remember? Besides, we don't reward bad behaviour.'

It's like everyone spots the borderline-murderous expression on Bucky's face at once, the room sucked dry. Skye goes pale when Bucky takes a jerky step towards Tripp, shoulders tense, back ram-rod straight.

'I'm not a _child_.' His teeth are bared and his eyes lock with Tripp's until Steve steps forwards, tread steady and quiet. There have been a hundred-and-one moments like this before - the waitress at a diner startling him with a splash of hot coffee on the back of his hand. A hurried commuter slamming into his shoulder first thing in the morning. The shitty teenage boys who'd woken them up by throwing bottles at them as they'd slept in a doorway in Paris. Steve's well-versed in this, talking Bucky down, and his voice is low as he suggests;

'Jemma, why don't you show Bucky and I to our rooms?'

Simmons' movement breaks the frozen stillness of the group, everyone turning to some semblance of normalcy whilst Steve touches a gentle hand to Bucky's elbow. He flinches away for a moment but it doesn't take a lot of prompting for him to follow Simmons, the three of them picking over the clutter of the room and letting the door click shut behind them.

'We'll all be leaving tomorrow, so you can pick whatever rooms you like then - Fitz and I will explain the security system before we go - but for now we thought you might like to share the guest suite? Philip's just next door if you have any questions. It's very safe here; it's an abandoned show apartment, but the company who owns the site went out of business before any of the other apartments were built, and no one wanted to by the site because it's so out of the way. Perfect for us, really -'

Steve lets Simmons' words wash over him, watches Bucky scan the corridor. They peek into a room cluttered with wires, discarded clothes, taken-apart phones; it must be Skye's. He seems more soothed now - Simmons always was his favourite, her knit sweaters and cheery smiles presenting a total non-threat to the Winter Soldier's instincts. Steve knows better (he's seen Simmons talk about Ward with that same murderous fire he's seen in men and women twice her size) - nodding along a little when Jemma looks over her shoulder to explain some complex aspect of the new locks. He walks close to the wall, keeping a hand running absently along the cracked wallpaper as they go.

'Here we are,' Simmons smiles, gesturing them inside and hovering in the doorway. 'There's running water and we managed to knock up a heating element, so perhaps the two of you could take a shower?' Simmons suggests - then breaks off, eyes wide as she stumbles over her words, Steve and Bucky watching on, bemused. 'I mean - _showers_ , I meant. Plural. Separate. I wasn't suggesting that, um - well, that the two of you were - would shower _together_. Not that there would be an issue with that, if - um -'

'We'll see you in a little while, ma'am,' Steve cuts in mercifully.

'Right. Of course.'

'Thanks, Jemma.'

Her smile meets her eyes when she looks towards Bucky.

'No problem, Mr Barnes. Captain. It really is - I mean... I'm very glad to see you're both well.'

Bucky surprises the two of them by breaking into a full-blown smile, seemingly shocked out of him by Simmons' kindness. Most of the team have made it very clear by this point that they're here for Cap, and that any murderous stragglers Steve happens to have brought along with him are right at the bottom of their list of priorities at the moment. But Simmons, perhaps, sees a little less Winter Soldier and a little more Bucky Barnes. Who doesn't even flinch when she reaches out and squeezes his arm before darting out. The door shuts behind her and the two of them are left to their silence.

'She's... nice,' Bucky comments, overly-casual, employing what is apparently the Winter Soldier's favourite, totally non-committal adjective.

'Yeah,' Steve agrees, dumping his shoes at the front of the bed and pulling his beanie off, scratching a hand through the stubble there. 'Yeah, they're all nice kids.'

'Not sure I like that Fitz one,' Bucky grunts, expression souring as he goes to the radiator in the corner and fiddles with it. It takes a few moments to warm up but Bucky's already settling his back against it, pulling his knees up to his chest. What appears to be a home-made space heater sits in the corner and (wondering just how bored Fitz must have been these past few days), Steve flicks it on and nudges it with his foot until it's facing Bucky, asking as he goes;

'Yeah? You hate him so much you're gonna stab him with a fork again over dinner?'

' _Maybe_ ,' Bucky mumbles back, petulant, staring down at his metal arm when it clinks against the radiator. Steve watches him waggle his fingers experimentally - the movement varies between sluggish and erratic, forefinger barely moving whilst his little finger twitches sharply.

'How's it feel?'

As much as Steve's loathe to admit it, Hydra had a lot of highly-trained technicians whose sole purpose was to maintain the functionality and comfort of Bucky's arm. Now, they're lucky to see Fitz once a month. After the damage it took in Edinburgh, it's barely functional; Bucky's taken to shoving his left hand in his pocket and, apparently, pretending it doesn't exist.

'Like shit,' Bucky glares down at the sliver of metal peeking out from below the cuff of his coat before pulling the material down with an angry jerk. 'Feels like lugging a fucking dead weight around, you know?'

'It hurt?' Steve probes gently, used to one-word answers from Bucky and nothing much else, wanting to take advantage of this sudden bout of chattiness. Bucky frowns, circles his shoulder gingerly and winces at the movement.

'Yeah. A little - it's sorta sore at the - at the -' he breaks off, gesturing to his shoulder, searching hard for the right terminology.

'At the joint?' Steve suggests. A flicker of hurt rushes over Bucky's expression - but then he shrugs, doesn't look at Steve.

'Sure. The joint.'

 _Shit_.

'I - uh. I was gonna take a shower. You wanna go first, or - I mean, I'm not sure hot water there'll be -'

'S'fine. I'm gonna sleep.'

Steve nods, head bobbing awkwardly - but Bucky's not even looking his way, rising to stand at the window, space heater blowing hot air at his legs.

When Steve gets out of the shower, Bucky's still stood staring out of the window. This high up they can see London's skyline, familiar from movies and paintings and - and now this.

It looks so small from here. And so easy. Spread out at their feet as if it's theirs to take. Steve shuts his eyes, remembers a Brooklyn apartment with too many stairs, remembers looking out and seeing the lights of New York, bright and busy - remembers Bucky behind him, chattering nine to the dozen and half-dressed, getting ready to go out. Remembers that same feeling - as if the world were his. _Theirs_.

'Pretty amazing, huh?' Steve asks, coming to Bucky's side, radiator hot enough to burn his knees through the denim of his jeans. He's close enough to Bucky that their hips could bump if Steve shifted to his right just a little.

'Yeah.'

They stay there a little while. Drink it in. The sky is grey and pale, swollen storm clouds brewing a way off.

Steve can't help but be glad, despite all the shit and death and chaos, that, at this moment, he's stood right here.

'You gonna get some sleep now?' Steve asks, forcing himself to break the silence. Forcing himself to step away.

'Yeah,' Bucky breathes out, peeling out of his parka but snatching a few blankets that are draped across a chair and shoving them over his shoulders, crawling under the covers without looking Steve's way.

'You want me to turn the light out?'

'Nah. Leave it on.'

'Alright. I'll be right next door if you need anything.'

'Okay.'

Steve pauses, takes in the lump under the covers, Bucky's messy mass of hair peeking out from about three blankets. He raises his head, blinks owlishly across at Steve.

'Alright, Buck.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. So SteveBucky and Coulson's team. C'mon. Tell me you don't think post-tws Bucky and Simmons would be cutie besties.  
> chapter title taken from [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1pCOR9Rv9M)  
> You should totally come say on [twitter](https://twitter.com/peedonthefloor) or follow my [writing blog](idekman-ao3.tumblr.com) (where I'll maybe post previews or drabbles of this sort of thing. If you ask!) Or even come say hi on my [personal tumblr!](whambamsebastianstan.tumblr.com) Or do none of those things. The choice is yours.


	3. can you teach me how to feel real (can you turn my power off)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glancing over, Steve frowns as a droplet of water runs over Bucky's temple. 'No wonder you're cold,' Steve scolds, padding over and placing a bundled up towel by Bucky's knee. 'I'm gonna buy you a damn hair dryer.' When Bucky continues to ignore him, still staring, fixated, at the television, Steve takes a step closer, trying to garner any kind of reaction. 'You'll catch a cold.'  
> Nothing.
> 
> 'I don't wanna have to deal with you when you're sick. You'll be a grumpy little shit.'

Coulson's office-come-bedroom - it's a room containing a bed that someone happened to shove a desk in - is inexplicably calming. Coulson alone usually produces that effect, today exuding an inherent peacefulness in a zip up fleece and fluffy bedsocks - but when the door shuts behind Steve, cutting out the bickering and clatter of noise from the next room, a weight lifts from his chest. Melinda turns from where she's studying a sparse book case to send him a brief smile.

'Steve. How's it going?'

From anyone else, at any other time, it would be a genial pleasantry - but from Melinda it's a far broader question, leaving Steve struggling as he takes a seat.

'Edinburgh was tough. That sort of upheaval wasn't easy, 'specially for Bucky.'

(Steve doesn't mention the nightmares he still has, the drop in his stomach when he'd realised they were suddenly so unsafe. Doesn't mention sneaking onto a train to London with his arm still bleeding from a bullet wound and Bucky halfway to a panic attack. They've all got half a dozen more things on their mind than Steve's handful of worries.)

'How is Bucky?' Coulson questions kindly - and well. Jesus, if that isn't a loaded question Steve doesn't know what is.

'Better.' Steve pauses, fiddles with the hem of his flannel shirt, the only clean thing he could find. 'Worse, too.'

'Is he still having nightmares?'

'Yeah, pretty bad. Maybe being here'll be better for him though?' No one says anything and Steve clears his throat. 'He hasn't been eating much either.'

Melinda meets his gaze steadily, eyes a little narrowed, finally coming to stand by Coulson's desk.

'None of us can help James if you're not totally honest with us, Steve.' Her voice is stern but her eyes are kind and Steve has to force himself to speak past the lump in his throat.

'I... He's been real confused lately. Up and down, mood swings, disorientation, but he's been far more... tactile, too.'

Taking in the matching expressions of shock he's faced with, he has to fight a hysterical urge to laugh, instead launching into an explanation of Bucky shoving his hand up Steve's shirt, Bucky sleeping practically on top of him, Bucky with an arm wrapped round his waist pretending to be his _boyfriend_ in the middle of a fucking London tube station. By the time he's done Melinda looks halfway to amused and Coulson looks halfway to uncomfortable. It's an odd look on a man who rarely manages an expression more intense than severely put out. In the silence that lingers Steve watches the man struggle for words with the thought that _Tony would love this_. Then he realises he's fallen on hard times when he finds himself missing _Tony Stark._

'Steve - uh. Well. I. Melinda, you wanna take this?'

'I think this is all yours, Phil.'

'Right. Um. So it's possible that the Winter Soldier may be becoming - uh. _Confused_ when it comes to returning memories of the past. Of - of _your_ past. Do you understand?'

Coulson's bright red. Steve feels like he needs a burner phone purely for the purpose of texting Stark about this _exact moment._

'Not really,' Steve manages as Coulson sends Melinda a pleading look. Huffing, she relents.

'James may be seeing a romantic context to Bucky's memories of the time you two spent together and assuming this is the norm for your relationship. Is it?'

'Is what?' Steve asks, mind racing a mile a minute.

'The norm?'

'Is _what_ the norm?'

'A romantic context?'

'... _What?'_

'What May's trying to ask you, Steve,' Coulson sighs, 'is if you and Bucky were... _together_.'

Steve stares at the two figures before him. They look as if they've just asked him for the time. Sometimes, he really _hates_ super spies.

'In the _nineteen-forties?'_ Steve eventually spits back, incredulous. 'What do _you_ think?'

'Gay marriage is illegal in Russia, Captain Rogers. Do you think there are no homosexuals in Russia?'

' _No_ \- I -' Steve breaks off, stares up at Melinda, frustration buzzing under his skin.

Sure. He'd been in love with Bucky Barnes ever since the little shit had hauled his skinny ass up off the street for the first time, put anti-septic over his skinned knees and called him _a fuckin' idiot_. He'd spent years putting every single part of Bucky to memory, years full of furtive glances when they were getting changed, years of imagining the hand wrapped round his dick when he jerked off wasn't his own. The only person who'd ever pulled him from that course was Peggy. And _that_  had been confusing right up to the year 2012, where he'd googled bisexuality after an off the cuff comment from Tony. (He hadn't been joking when he'd told Sam how helpful the internet is.)

But. _Still_.

It had _always_ been one-sided. He'd been so in love with Bucky he'd figured the whole world and his wife would be writing a damn movie script about their epic, utterly unrequited romance - but he'd woken up and Bucky Barnes was his _best friend since childhood_ , according to the history books. Nothing more, nothing less.

'No,' Steve eventually murmurs. 'Bucky wasn't - wouldn't _ever_ have been - interested.'

He can feel Coulson and Melinda's watching him even as he focuses on his twisted fingers, face bright red. The lump's back in his throat and his eyes are starting to burn, glad when Melinda starts up, matter of fact;

'So. Has Fitz explained the security system yet?'

 

When he returns to the room Bucky's awake and huddled into a blanket like a human burrito. He's finally showered, hair clean and dripping down his back, staring absently at the television. It's playing some British show full of foul-mouthed teenagers wearing bright orange jumpsuits, and as Steve potters round the room, hyper-conscious of his own presence now, Bucky huffs out a laugh.

'I like this,' he comments idly, gesturing towards the television with the remote. 'It's funny.'

That's a step up from _nice_ , at least.

'Good.' Glancing over, Steve frowns as a droplet of water runs over Bucky's temple. 'No wonder you're cold,' Steve scolds, padding over and placing a bundled up towel by Bucky's knee. 'I'm gonna buy you a damn hair dryer.' When Bucky continues to ignore him, still staring, fixated, at the television, Steve takes a step closer, trying to garner any kind of reaction. 'You'll catch a cold.'

Nothing.

'I don't wanna have to deal with you when you're sick. You'll be a grumpy little shit.'

Bucky cracks a grin at the antics of the characters on screen. Sighing none-too genuinely, Steve grabs the towel and settles, legs crossed, behind Bucky. 'This alright?'

Bucky glances over his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded, manages a smile that's almost shy.

'Sure.'

Steve keeps his movements slow, wringing water out of Bucky's hair as the tv murmurs around them. It's already starting to get dark out and London's coming to life with glowing, amber lights. It's like no other city he's seen, and as he ruffles the towel over Bucky's head he tries to banish the thoughts of the last time he was here, his memories sepia-saoked and gilded. Unlike the harsh, miserable greys of their missions, their practically one-man invasions, London had glowed just like Brooklyn had. Coming back hadn't felt right after Bucky had fallen.

Nothing felt right after Bucky had fallen.

'Why'd you stop?' Bucky asks lazily, rubbing at his eyes. He wants to sleep - Steve can see it in the droop of his shoulders, the way he's almost leaning back into Steve.

'You're all done,' Steve mutters, leaning off the bed to drape the towel over the radiator. Bucky shakes his head a little, rakes his fingers through the knots in want of a comb, turns his attention back to the television as if he's not sure what else to do with himself.

'Hey, how 'bout in a bit we go see Fitz about your arm?'

'Will it hurt?'

Steve blinks, snaps shut his open mouth. Bucky's turned to look at him now, back twisted at an awkward angle as he frowns.

The last few times Fitz has looked at Bucky's arm, worked repairs and adjustments, it's been - judging by how white Bucky's face had gone, the tight grip around the knife he'd refused to go without in the early days - agony. Yet Bucky had never complained, certainly never dared _question_ it - he'd just sat there, blank, as if the hurt was to be... expected. As much a part of his daily routine as breakfast.

'A little,' Steve tells him. Then - because the question's progress and doesn't deserve to be met with a lie. And because he never could lie to Bucky - he amends;

'Maybe a lot.'

Bucky's head turns and Steve's off the bed in an instant, round the other side and crouched in front of him, waiting until Bucky reluctantly meets his eye. He's _shaking_.

'But it won't hurt as much as if you get an infection at the joint - in - in your shoulder. And when we go back to New York - I've got this friend. He'll look at if or you. Maybe make you a new one. Don't even think 'bout telling him I said this, he'd never shut up about it - but he's a hundred times smarter than Fitz -'

Bucky snorts.

'Anyone's smarter'n that chump. Even _you_ are.'

These days, even when Bucky teases him it sounds like he's just going through the motions. Steve'll take what he can get.

'Sure,' he grins. He doesn't feel like mentioning that Fitz is an award-winning scientist and a world-renowned academic in his own field. 'But he'll fix it for you. I promise you Buck. This pain ain't permanent.'

Warily, Bucky forces himself to look at Steve. His eyes are wide. Vulnerable. Steve resists the urge to put a hand on his shoulder - touch him, comfort him, anything - and is rewarded when Bucky's hand drops, bumping his knuckles over Steve's for a moment.

'You promise?'

'I promise.'

Bucky nods. He still looks scared. Terrified, even. But his voice is strong when he suggests that they go to see Fitz right away.

'Alright. Maybe we can ask him to make you a hairdryer too.'

'How 'bout you shut your damn mouth,' Bucky snaps - but there's no bite in it, and he picks up a hair tie from the dresser, pulls his hair up into a sloppy ponytail that at least reassures Steve he's not going to die of pneumonia any time soon.

 

'Why do they do that?'

He's desparate to distract Bucky, who currently has his hand wrapped in a death grip around Steve's wrist (a lesser being's bones would have cracked at this point) as Fitz fiddles with the tiniest screwdriver Steve's ever seen and what appears to be a microscopic blow torch. The flaps of metal ripple every now and then, accompanied by an angry whirring noise and the occasional twitch of Bucky's shoulder. It's like watching a fish's gills take in oxygen, an oddly hypnotic movement that Fitz is watching carefully, measuring the reactions.

'Well -' Fitz starts up, only to be interrupted;

'It's to prepare it. For fightin',' Bucky grunts out around gritted teeth. Fitz blinks in surprise, looking over Bucky to where Steve's stood, before screwing his face up in consideration.

'Well. Yes and no. It carries out a number of functions - ventilation, cleaning out dust and dirt, helping to keep the core body temperature down - but primarily it is for, as you say, preparation for fighting. Think of the movement as... changing gears. Bucky's prosthetic needs to be capable of transfer from agility to strength at high speeds, and the metal panelling helps with that. Really, it is an incredible piece of engineering -'

Steve lets Fitz chatter on as Bucky tracks his movements closely, his hand squeezing tighter around Steve's wrist every now and then. So Steve's grateful that today, when Bucky had walked into Fitz' makeshift workshop with his fingers trembling and his jaw clenched, Fitz had ignored every sharp barb thrown his way. Instead he's moved slowly, worked gently, paused every now and then to let Bucky catch his breath and process the pain. And it's kind, now, the distraction Fitz offers with his explanations.

'Hey - Rogers says we might be able to go see some scientist up in New York. Tony Stark. You heard'a him?' Bucky asks in a rest period, inclining his head towards Fitz. It's perhaps the first time Bucky's asked a question, initiated a conversation between the two of them, and Fitz looks momentarily terrified at the laugh that forces its way out of his own mouth. Steve restrains himself from telling him that Bucky won't stab him for laughing at him. Probably.

'Tony Stark. Yeah, I've - I've heard of him. Just about.' Bucky nods, considering Fitz' words, taking a moment to watch the cooling metal inside of his arm. There's an acrid, burning smell in the air that pricks at the backs of Steve's eyes, but both the scientist and the assassin seem entirely used to it.

The scientist studies the assassin briefly. Carefully putting away the tweezers that he'd been twisting around his fingers as Bucky had sat, hissing swearwords in Russian under his breath, Fitz pulls the goggles off of his face and ensures he has Bucky's attention.

'Tony Stark? He's - a great man. Done lots of good work, incredibly smart to boot. The best in the business. But... he's used to making weapons. However he uses them, whatever he uses them for, in the end those suits - they're weapons. This? _This_ ,' Fitz breaks off, lets his hand hover a careful inch or so over the metal, still a little warm from his ministrations. 'It's a prosthetic. It's not a part of you unless you want it to be - but don't let anyone tell you it's a weapon. Not ever. Alright?'

A pair of mortified eyes rest on Fitz' solemn face for a moment. There's a fraction of understanding passing between the two, a shaky nod - then Bucky's back to staring at his knees and Fitz is back to hiding behind his goggles.

Even if the most Bucky manages is a grumbled _thank you_ as he waggles his fingers experimentally and rushes away, he saw Fitz' kindness just as much as Steve did.

He hangs behind, waits for the sounds of Bucky's footsteps to fade away before finally turning towards Fitz, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. Fitz' expression flickers to terrified - apparently a default around large men who are essentially highly-trained killers, which... well. Fair enough - and Steve, as exhausted as he is, schools his expression into something friendly.

'Thanks, Fitz. That was - was a good thing you did for Bucky today.'

Fitz blinks up at him, a little taken-aback - but eventually he nods, looking up at Steve in the midst of that small, cluttered room.

'I don't like him very much. And he scares the _shit_ out of him. But Simmons likes him, and he's - he's a good man, isn't he. I mean - under all the... all those things they did to him.'

It's Steve's turn to be taken-aback now, tries to push away the abrupt rush of warmth towards the team who, only a few months ago, had been so cold towards Bucky, suffering from their own recent betrayal.

'Yeah. Yeah, Fitz, he's - he's the best.'

(He's not sure how true that is any more, but he figures if he says it enough maybe he'll start believing it.)

'You know, you guys can stick around as long as you like - don't feel like you have to clear out on our account -'

'Oh, we, uh... There's been sightings of Ward up in Scotland, so we're heading up there.'

Steve nods, face crumpled in contemplation, recalls the look of disgust on Skye's face when she'd told him the story.

'Right. Good. Make sure you sock the dickhead in the jaw once from Captain America.'

Fitz throws his head back, laughing noisily at the cieling as Steve crosses to the doorway.  
'I'll do my best.'  
It's not until he's turned the handle that he remembers another, somewhat lighter story Syke had told him. Casually as he can manage when he's Captain America questioning someone about their love life, he asks;

'Hey. Whatever happened with you and Simmons?'

He almost expects Fitz to blush or stutter - instead his shoulders turn heavy, face drawn and tired all of a sudden.

'You know - what with this whole mess and everything... Me getting better, the Ward thing, I - it doesn't seem... the right time.'

Steve looks at Fitz, thinks about Simmons, the boy before him - so young and so, _so_ sad. Steve blinks, sees flashes of those sepia-toned memories (Bucky smiling, Bucky's eyelashes fluttering, Bucky kissing some girl's neck when he thinks Steve's not looking).

'You can spend your whole life waiting for the right time,' Steve intones softly. 'Take it from an old man. Don't waste the time you've got.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the opinions of the characters don't necessarily reflect the opinions of the author.  
> Name the tv show referenced in this chapter and you get a prize. (Spoiler alert: there is no prize.)  
> I hope you enjoyed? My end notes for every chapter are showing up at the end of EVERY chapter, I have no idea how to get rid of it but I am working on it. If anyone can help me out.  
> Also sorry this took so long! Has it really been 6 days?? I've been busy.  
> The concept behind Bucky's metal arm and why the flaps move was created by the lovely [nasa dog.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nasadog/pseuds/nasadog) Thanks bae. Come say hi on [twitter,](https://twitter.com/peedonthefloor) [tumblr](www.whambamsebastianstan.tumblr.com) or follow my [writing tumblr.](http://idekman-ao3.tumblr.com/)  
> The chapter title came from [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_oMD6-6q5Y) Please appreciate my robot metaphors.

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky puts his hand up Steve's shirt to ground himself in reference to the Steve he remembers - although Steve doesn't mind, Bucky doesn't ask first.  
> There's also a quite explicit description of an explosion and a dead body with a dismembered hand that Steve stands on.
> 
> you can find me at whambamsebastianstan.tumblr.com or @peedonthefloor on twitter. please come say hi! i also track the tag idekman ao3 on tumblr :)  
> here's another fic with 'aint' in the title. sorry. chapter title taken from the water by johnny flynn and laura marling.


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